We marched out from the camp at Niort, twenty-five thousand strong, all in good spirits, and all placing the most implicit trust in our gallant leader.  The dead Conde’s troops were especially eager for the fray, and as they mounted and rode off, the words “Remember Jarnac!” passed from man to man.  It was a watchword that boded ill for their opponents.

From day to day our scouts brought in word of the royal forces.  They outnumbered us by several thousands, but that did not damp our ardour; in spite of Jarnac, we felt that we were marching to victory.

We had advanced within two days’ distance of the city of Limoges, when our scouts galloped in with the information that they had encountered a strong force of hostile cavalry.  Our preparations for battle were all made, so Coligny continued his march, the horsemen retiring before us, and making no effort to attack.

We passed an anxious night:  the sentries were doubled, the outposts strengthened, and the men slept with their weapons in their hands, ready to spring up at the first note of warning.  For the Admiral’s personal attendants there was no sleep whatever.  We passed our time in visiting the outposts, and in seeing that everything was secure.  Only after day broke were we able to snatch an hour or two’s rest.

“Faith,” laughed Felix, as the march was resumed, “this is fine preparation for a battle!  Edmond, rub the dust from your eyes; you look sleepy enough to fall from your saddle!”

“And all our labour was wasted!” I grumbled.  “Those fellows just went comfortably to sleep, laughing at us for our pains.”

“Never mind!” said my comrade merrily, “it may be our turn to laugh next.  And, after all, I would rather laugh last.”

All that day we marched through a woody, irregular district, the horsemen watching our movements, but retiring steadily at our approach, as if wishing to lure us into some cunning trap.  But Coligny was not to be tempted; he kept his troops well in hand, and in the evening we camped by the side of a small stream with a marsh in our front.

“We have caught him,” cried Felix, in a tone of delight.

“Or he has caught us!” said I dubiously.  “Anjou has some skilful soldier at his elbow who chose that position.”

On the other side of the marsh rose a rugged hill, and at the summit the royalist general had pitched his camp.  Rude breastworks, from which the muzzles of several guns peeped out, had been erected, and altogether it looked as if Monseigneur had provided us with a hard nut to crack.

Coligny rode out across the marsh to examine the enemy’s position more clearly, and I fancied there was a shade of anxiety on his usually serene face.  It was a heavy responsibility he had to bear, for, should his troops be defeated, the Huguenot Cause was lost.  There was no other army to replace the one under his command.

“The longer you look at it the less you’ll like it,” said Roger Braund cheerfully—­for our English comrade often came over for a chat when we had pitched camp—­“Monseigneur has fenced himself in marvellously well.”